Better than Reality
by ureshiiichigo
Summary: Tom, Arthur, David, and Laurie meet on Fridays for their weekly table-top role playing game. Their current campaign? John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, and Greg Lestrade must work together to solve the case of a mysterious string of suicides. Preslash, spoilers for Ep. 1. Beta'd by gretchen4321 and percygranger; Brit-picked by hms wellington.
1. A Study in Character Creation: Prologue

**Better than Reality**

_"The human mind has a greater need of the ideal even than of the real. It is by the real that we exist; it is by the ideal that we live."_  
Victor Hugo, "William Shakespeare" (1864)

xxxxx

**A Study in Character Creation, or: The First Session is Always Awkward**

**Prologue**

xxxxx

Beta'd by gretchen4321 and percygranger

Britpicked by hms_wellington

xxxxx

"Seriously, David, you're playing a detective inspector? You've played the same character the last three campaigns." Tom ran a hand absently through his messy dishwater blond mop. His words lacked any bite, so David was unconcerned.

"I'm the dungeon master's boyfriend. I can do whatever the hell I want. Now shut it and create your character."

"Yeah, yeah. Anyway, where's Arthur? I thought he was supposed to be here by now."

"Well, with _his _job..." David grinned.

Right on cue, there was a frantic knocking at the front door.

"Come in, it's open!" David called out.

Arthur popped his head round the door. "Sorry I'm late, everyone! You know how it is with traffic. I think I must be cursed, or something."

Tom smiled at the sight of Arthur. The silly man was still wearing his pilot's uniform. He looked slightly less awkward than in his typical jeans and t-shirts.

He'd left his cap at home, apparently, and his frizzy ginger hair was sticking out at weird angles.

"Did you come straight from the airport?" Tom asked, only half interested in the answer, as Arthur shrugged out of his jacket and hung it up carefully in the hall closet.

"Yes," Arthur said, patting his head absently. "Sam wanted a photo with my hat yesterday, so I let him borrow it. I had to show up at work today without it." He frowned.

"I'm sure no one noticed," David said, emitting a long-suffering sigh, and twisting his mechanical pencil between two long fingers. "Have you picked out your character yet?"

"It's D20 modern this time, right? So I can play anything modern-day?"

"No aeroplane pilots," Tom and David chorused.

"Aww, why can't I play a pilot?" Arthur protested, pulling out the free chair next to Tom at the dining table.

"Because otherwise you'd never shut up about it?" Tom proffered, the corners of his mouth lifting in a smirk. "I thought you joined this group so you'd have a hobby _other _than flying."

"Fine," Arthur muttered, settling against the wooden chair back.

"Pasta's done, dear." Laurie bounced through the kitchen doorway and kissed David on the cheek.

Tom grinned cheerfully at the couple. He'd always had a bit of a thing for Laurie. Not that he'd ever admit as much. "So what's the setting, Laurie?"

"It's modern day London! I've worked it out with David. I think it'll be so much fun."

"Let me guess, you're playing the villain?" Tom asked.

Laurie giggled. "How did you know? Since, well, I'm the DM and I get to play _all_the characters." She looked at David in mock disappointment. "David, did you say something?"

David sighed. "No, my lips are sealed. Go get me some pasta, would you?"

"I never play evil characters, normally! I'm looking forward to DMing. It means I get to play a deranged mastermind."

Laurie giggled again when David smacked her lightly on the arse.

"Where's my dinner? Off with you!" Laurie scampered back into the kitchen, smiling.

"I've no idea what I'm going to play," Arthur groaned.

Tom poked him in the side. "Why don't you play someone completely different from you, then? You know – someone intelligent, confident, sexy..." he teased.

"Oh, thanks for that." Arthur blushed and turned away from Tom.

Tom grinned. "You know I was only joking. Besides, I'm playing someone totally unlike me – he's an army doctor, who was shot and sent home from the war. He's looking for excitement!"

"And he's a ladies' man, and doesn't live with his parents, or hate his job," David added.

Tom glared. "That's only because he's unemployed. And what are you trying to imply about my love life?"

"Aren't you still pining over that co-worker of yours?" David raised an eyebrow. "The one with the boyfriend?"

"I am not pining!"

"Quit picking on Tom," Laurie said as she popped out of the kitchen with a large bowl of penne and a jar of marinara. "At least he told her how he felt." She glanced guiltily at Arthur, who turned a particularly entertaining shade of scarlet.

David just sighed.

Laurie leaned over the table to set down the pasta. "The setting is London, and there have been a series of murders. Why don't you play a detective or something, Arthur? You could work with David's character."

Arthur's lip pushed out rather adorably as he mulled it over. "I suppose that wouldn't be too bad. I could be a private detective, except I sometimes consult with the police force. A consulting detective! I'll be one of those brilliant people who observes everything and then comes up with clever explanations. Like Poirot! But sexy."

Arthur looked rather pleased with himself. Tom snorted.

"What?" Arthur asked, his lower lip jutting outward in a pout.

"Nothing. I'm looking forward to seeing you come up with these clever explanations."

Arthur looked worried, but then his expression cleared. "That's what the dice are for!"

David laughed. "We are actually here to role play, Arthur, not just roll dice."

"I know that! I just..." Arthur flailed a bit, hands gesticulating wildly. He stilled when David shot him an incredulous look. "Never mind, hand me the book," Arthur deflected. "I need to look up skills."

Tom smiled and turned back to his character sheet. He was looking forward to next week's session. Creating John Watson had been fun, but getting to play him would be even better.


	2. ASiCC: 1 Awkward Introductions

**Better than Reality**

_"The human mind has a greater need of the ideal even than of the real. It is by the real that we exist; it is by the ideal that we live."_  
Victor Hugo, "William Shakespeare" (1864)

xxxxx

**A Study in Character Creation, or: The First Session is Always Awkward**

**Chapter 1: Awkward Introductions**

xxxxx

Beta'd by gretchen4321 and percygranger

Britpicked by hms_wellington

xxxxx

The following week, Tom arrived at Laurie and David's place just as Arthur was walking up, the back of his jumper pulled up over his head to shield from the falling drizzle.

"Hello," Tom said.

"Oh, hello!" Arthur cried. "I took the tube today." He tugged his jumper back down to his hips.

Tom raised an eyebrow at Arthur.

The tips of Arthur's ears flushed a faint pink, and he grimaced. "I mean. Just. You know. I saw that you drove. So." Arthur nervously smoothed the top of his hair, which was starting to frizz.

"So, you felt the need to comment on your own mode of transportation?"

Arthur flushed a deeper red and crossed his arms over his chest. "I guess."

"Right," Tom murmured as he pushed open the door to Laurie and David's flat.

Tom set down his six pack of Guinness on the kitchen counter and made his way to the dining room.

David waved to them from the table and reached for the remote to switch off the telly. "Laurie's going to be late this week; she got a call from work. Power outage knocked out all the servers. She told me to start without her. We need to get our characters to all meet up, anyway."

"Aww, rats," Arthur said, pulling off his jumper, "I was looking forward to our epic confrontation with the villain!"

David laughed. "Don't worry, you'll get one in due time. Tom, you're playing John Watson, right? And your character just got back from Afghanistan after being shot?"

"Yeah. I'm living in London, but I can't really afford it."

"And Arthur, you're playing," David peered at Arthur's character sheet, "Sherlock Holmes. You've just been evicted from your flat."

Arthur nodded excitedly. "I was conducting a chemistry experiment and I set fire to the curtains! No, wait, the whole flat! No, there was an explosion!"

David interrupted hurriedly, "Right, very exciting, I'm sure. So we'll assume that both of you are looking for flatmates?"

Arthur bounced up and down in his chair, and Tom shrugged.

David smiled blandly. "All right, I get to be DM for a bit. Tom, that is, John, you're taking an afternoon stroll–"

"Don't forget, I have a limp. Not a very good stroll."

"Right. So you're taking an afternoon limp, and you run into an old friend from uni, Mike Stamford." David looked over at Tom seriously as he launched into the story...

xxxxx

_It was a beautiful, sunny day, but John was in a foul mood. He was always in a foul mood these days._

_"John! John Watson! Is that you? It's me, Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together."_

_"Mike! Right, of course." John raised an eyebrow expectantly._

_Mike puffed out his cheeks comically. "I know, I know, I've got fat."_

_"Fat is an understatement!" He limped over to Mike cheerfully._

_"So, living in London?" Mike asked._

_"Yeah, I can't really afford it at the moment, though."_

_"Thought about getting a flatmate?"_

_John considered. "Who'd want to live with me? I'm not the easiest man to live with, after all. Aside from the occasional PTSD attack, or very vocal nightmare, I'm a bit short-tempered, I have a gambling problem, and I can't cook anything much fancier than beans on toast. But at least I'm clean!"_

_Mike laughed. "You're the second person who's said that to me today!"_

_"Wait, the bit about having PTSD and being a gambler?" John raised a single eyebrow incredulously._

_Mike grimaced. "No. The bit about wanting a flatmate."_

_"Really? What an _amazing _coincidence," John said._

_"Oh, shut it," Mike retorted, rolling his eyes. "I know, why don't we go meet him. He's probably still at St. Bart's."_

_John agreed to accompany Mike to St. Bart's, where both of them had attended university ._

_Mike opened the door to the lab at St. Bart's. The room's sole occupant was a tall, thin man with black hair who was looking into a microscope._

_"Hi, Mike! Who's this?" the man asked excitedly._

_"This is my friend, John Watson. We met in uni."_

_He jumped up and extended a hand. "Nice to meet you, John."_

_John quirked an eyebrow at the strange man. "Thanks? You're... *ahem* not as stand-offish as I thought you would be. You know. From reading your character sheet."_

_"Oh. I mean, it's... not... nice to meet you."_

_"Yeah, whatever. So this is the bloke who's looking for a flatmate?" John asked._

_"Oh, I know, I'll impress you with my deductive abilities..." Sherlock danced on the balls of his feet. "I rolled a 17. That's 23 total. Excellent."_

_After a moment of silence, Mike asked, "So are you going to share these amazing deductions with us, then?"_

_"Oh. Bugger. Yes. Erm... Let me see your character sheet, John."_

_Sherlock smiled confidently and then proceeded. "So – which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"_

_"What?"_

_"Were you deployed in Afghanistan or Iraq?"_

_"Gasp. How did you know?"_

_Sherlock smiled merrily and continued. "I play the violin. I keep body parts in the fridge. I've been evicted several times for setting the flat on fire. I don't cook or clean, and sometimes I stab the furniture."_

_"Wait, what!? And you didn't answer my question."_

_"Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other. I'm just letting you know what you're in for."_

_John turned to Mike in confusion. "What is he talking about?"_

_"No idea."_

_"I was just mentioning to Mike this morning that I must be a hard man to find a flatmate for. And your jumper is full of holes, so obviously you can't afford to live by yourself in London. It's only natural to assume that you're looking for a flatmate. There's a nice place in Westminster; I know the landlady, and we should be able to afford it together. Will you come by tomorrow at 7?"_

_John just blinked at Sherlock stupidly. "Not bad. But why would I want to be your flatmate? I don't know you. I don't know anything about you, except for the setting things on fire bit. I don't even know your name."_

_"But I know you. I know that you're an ex-army doctor with a limp; that you don't get on with your sister, maybe because of the drinking, but more likely because she left her... wife, really? … right. Left her wife recently; and I know that," he paused dramatically, "your therapist is a wanker."_

_Sherlock strolled out the door of the lab._

_"Oi, you didn't tell me your name! Or where the flat is?"_

_Sherlock popped his head back round the door. "Oh, right, sorry about that! The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street." He winked at John._

_John scrunched up his face in shock. "Wait, what was that? Did you just _wink _at me?"_

_"What's the problem? I'm sexy and confident, right? So why wouldn't I wink at you?" Sherlock coughed somewhat nervously._

_"Right," Mike interrupted. "I'm sure you can continue this discussion later tonight, at the flat," he noted pointedly._

_Later that evening, Sherlock bounded out of the taxi cab and strolled up to meet John Watson. "It's a lovely flat. I know the landlady. Helped her out in the past."_

_An old lady, smiling broadly, opened the door and hugged Sherlock. "And this is Doctor Watson, is it? I'm Mrs. Hudson. Come in!"_

_John sniggered at Mrs. Hudson's deep gravelly voice. "Nice voice you got there."_

_Mrs. Hudson switched to a falsetto. "Oh, shut it."_

_Sherlock and John laughed, and Mrs. Hudson scowled. "Excellent, let's see the place!" Sherlock babbled. "Does it have loads of treasure, or tech, or something?"_

_Mrs. Hudson frowned. "No, it's just a regular flat," she squeaked. "But it looks like you made a bit of a mess, Sherlock."_

_John stared at the mounds of junk littered everywhere. "What's all this crap?"_

_Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "Stuff. I use it. For... deducing things."_

_Mrs. Hudson smiled in a very predatory way as she said, "There's a bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms."_

_John glared. "What's that supposed to mean?"_

_"Well, Sherlock is so 'sexy', after all..."_

_Sherlock was bright red at this point._

_John cleared his throat. "I'm not gay. I mean, my character's not gay. John. He's a ladies' man. Not a... man's man. No offence and all, Mrs. Hudson."_

_Sherlock was looking at John strangely._

_"What?" John asked, frowning._

_"Nothing."_

_"Can we get back to the game, please?" Mrs. Hudson interjected grumpily. She tapped her foot impatiently._

_"Right, two bedrooms, good," Sherlock stuttered._

_"Anyway, Sherlock, what happened with those suicides you were looking at? Did the police ask for help yet?"_

_"Ah..."_

_A knock sounded at the door. "Thank God, DM's here!" Mrs. Hudson cried out, dashing down the stairs._

xxxxx

David pulled open the door to let Laurie in.

She looked miserable, holding tightly onto a ruined umbrella and soaking wet. "Stupid wind! Not only did it knock over a power line, it turned my umbrella inside out!" She stuffed the umbrella and her dripping jacket in the hall closet.

David rubbed soothing circles on Laurie's back and directed her towards the kitchen, where he proceeded to dutifully microwave a container of leftover fried rice, clucking at her tale of woe.

Tom just stared at Arthur. "What is _up _with your character?"

Arthur was beet red. "You were the one who said I should play someone different. And, ah, he's… not like me. At all."

"Right. What does Sherlock look like, anyway? Just so I know."

"Well, he's tall, and he's got… wavy black hair, and these cheekbones. He looks gaunt because he forgets to eat between cases, but he's still muscular because he's always running after criminals to chase them… And he wears these tailored suits since he has a good fashion sense."

Tom pictured Arthur, slightly taller, with black hair falling in curls in his eyes instead of ginger, more pronounced cheekbones, and fewer freckles, wearing a silk shirt and suit jacket. He laughed out loud.

"What! I thought… I thought it was a good character. I mean, that's sexy, right? It's your fault I wanted to make an attractive character."

Tom licked his lips in an effort to stop smiling, and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "No, you're right. He sounds quite attractive. I can't measure up to that, certainly."

Arthur frowned. "You're not supposed to; my character's the sexy one."

"But mine's the ladies' man."

"You'll never match Kenneth."

Tom grinned. "Your older brother, right? How many wives has he had? Four?"

"Only three!" Arthur scrunched up his face. "I suppose he's going to a wedding soon."

Tom blinked in confusion. "What?"

Arthur waved a hand dismissively. "He meets all his wives at weddings. Met one of them at his own, actually..."

Tom laughed and took another swig of beer.

"So what about your character? What does John Watson look like?" Arthur asked.

Tom frowned. He hadn't really thought that far ahead. Even coming up with a back story had been something of a challenge. "Uh, I guess he looks like me – blond hair, blue eyes, and a sort of muscular build."

Arthur giggled.

"What?" Tom frowned. "Okay, he's ex-military, so I suppose he'd be in better shape than me."

Arthur bit his lip guiltily. "It's just that... You're so short."

Tom grinned. "I'm only a few centimetres shorter than you."

David came back into the living room, his arm draped around Laurie's shoulders. "Oi, clear the table, will you? There's no room for Laurie's dinner." He shoved the player's handbook and dice bags away from Laurie's place setting and pulled out her chair with an exaggerated flourish. "Madam." He pursed his lips and batted his eyelashes and Tom couldn't contain his snort.

"Thanks, love," Laurie said as she settled into the chair and delicately scooped rice onto her chopsticks. "So where are we in the story? Have you all met?"

David shook his head. "These two have met, and I'm just about to come in."

"Wonderful," Laurie said, smiling brightly. "Let's just dive right in then." She took a deep breath and began to narrate...

xxxxx

_A police car's siren suddenly flashed on the street outside._

_"Three suicides, weren't there?" Mrs. Hudson said, this time in a much more feminine voice._

_"There must have been a fourth!" Sherlock shouted, practically giddy._

_Officer Greg Lestrade bounded up the steps. He ran a hand through his silvered hair and smiled at Sherlock winningly._

_John groaned. "You even have the same name as last game? Are you even trying?"_

_"Oh, shut it. Sherlock, can you help us?" Greg asked._

_"Why now? What's different this time?"_

_"The victim left a note."_

_Sherlock jumped up. "Excellent! Where is it? The scene of the crime, I mean. Not the note. I assume it's there too. Wait. Let me grab my coat, and I'll be right there."_

_John sat down heavily in the nearest armchair. Great. He was being ignored again._

_Sherlock paused in putting on his coat, and looked at John speculatively. "You were a doctor, right? And you were a soldier, so you know how to handle yourself around danger. Want to come with?"_

_John shrugged. "What else would I be doing?"_

_The three men arrived at the crime scene, and a young woman named Sally Donovan approached John. "You watch out for Sherlock. He's trouble."_

_"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Where's the body?" John walked straight past Sally and over to the stairs leading up to the crime scene._

_Sherlock giggled as he followed._

_They ran up the stairs. A man dressed in a blue SOCO suit ran after them and yelled, "You're not allowed in there!"_

_Greg responded, "They're with me."_

_"Very well," the man replied with narrowed eyes. "But they better not mess up my crime scene!"_

_John smirked. "Shut up already and let us see the corpse."_

_"John, don't you think that's a little _insensitive _of you?" the blue-clad man said._

_"What does he care? He's dead!"_

_Sherlock giggled again._

_John stared at the corpse in front of him._

_"Girl look at that body," John rapped, and right on cue, Greg sighed._

_John and Sherlock laughed._

_The blue-clad specialist, whose name was apparently Anderson, piped up from the other room. "Enough! Could you focus, please? There's a dead body on the floor, and the letters R-A-C-H-E. Maybe you want to observe the scene?"_

_Sherlock looked slightly abashed. "Right. I'll examine the body."_

_Sherlock whispered something in Anderson's ear; he looked impressed and whispered back._

_John munched on some crisps._

_"Seen any good matches, lately?" Greg asked._

_"Quiet, both of you! I can't think!" Sherlock shouted._

_John just smiled. "Okay. I'll examine the body. Let's see. She's dead."_

_Sherlock grinned. "A perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go... deeper."_

_John choked on his crisps. "Christ, Ar– Sherlock! Why do you keep hitting on me?"_

_"What? I wasn't... No, that was just... witty banter. You know. Because detectives do that sort of thing..."_

_"Sherlock, do you even know what flirting is? I seriously hope you haven't used that line on anyone. Well, anyone you didn't want to go home with."_

_Sherlock looked horribly embarrassed, and Anderson fidgeted nervously. "Can we get back to the game, please?"_

_Sherlock cleared his throat loudly and launched into what John thought was an intriguing, amazing, brilliant assessment of the murder victim._

xxxxx

Tom, on the other hand, thought it was a load of bollocks. "Are you telling me that he looked at her ring, her umbrella, her coat, and her pink outfit, and from that he knew where she was from, that she was cheating on her husband – with a bunch of different men, that she was only staying in town for one night, and that she had a suitcase that has mysteriously disappeared? And that's how you know it's a murder? That's total shite, and you know it!"

Arthur shrugged and took another swig of his ginger beer. "What can I say? I rolled well. Got 25 total. Besides, I asked good questions. Apparently."

Laurie spoke up quickly. "All right, what's everyone doing next?"

Arthur clapped his hands in glee. "I'm searching for the suitcase! It must be nearby in one of the skips from when the murderer dumped it. I'll just take twenty – however long it takes."

David looked thoughtful as he considered. "I guess I'll just wait here while the rest of my team looks at the body, see if there's anything else relevant at the scene."

Tom frowned. "Let me get this straight – I'm at a crime scene with a bunch of police, I don't know anyone, and my future flatmate just ditched me in order to dig through rubbish bins? Yeah, bugger this, I'm going back to my flat."

"It's too far to walk with your leg."

"Okay, I'll ask for directions to the nearest tube station."

"Sally Donovan gives you directions and warns you one more time about Sherlock."

Tom rolled his eyes. "I sense a theme."

Laurie sighed. "Guys, you really should try to stay in character."

Tom smiled. "But we are! Besides, come on, 'Don't mess up my crime scene'? And all the warnings about Sherlock. Really? How cliché is that?"

Laurie ignored Tom and pointed at Arthur's character sheet. "It says in your bio that you don't have any friends and you're emotionally distant? Uhm, you've been sort of _hitting on _John. A bit. Well, there's been a lot of giggling, at any rate. And that whole 'deeper' comment, Tom had a point there..."

Arthur's eyes flared ridiculously wide and his cheeks matched his hair. Arthur had a knack for blushing, but Tom had never seen him do it so often as he had this evening.

"Right, I'll fix that. No more hitting. Yes."

"And, Tom, your character is a _doctor_. He saves people. That's his life's goal. I'd think he'd probably care what others think of him. You've... been rather mean."

"Okay, yeah, less snark, more schmoozing. Got it."

Laurie smiled fondly. Honestly. Players were such a pain in the arse sometimes.

"Well, I think that's all we'll be getting through this evening. This seems as good a place to stop as any. Sorry again about being late. Hopefully nothing will blow up next week, and we can actually get started on time." She twitched nervously. "Not literally blow up. I mean… Right."

Tom and Arthur said their goodbyes to Laurie and David and slung on their shoes before heading out to the street outside.

"See you next week, Tom," Arthur called out.

Tom slipped into the driver's seat of his Volkswagen Jetta. "See you."

Arthur paused awkwardly. "Good night..."

Tom could see Arthur waving frantically in his rear view mirror as he drove away.


	3. ASiCC: 2 Random Kidnappings and Taxis

**Better than Reality**

_"The human mind has a greater need of the ideal even than of the real. It is by the real that we exist; it is by the ideal that we live."_  
Victor Hugo, "William Shakespeare" (1864)

xxxxx

**A Study in Character Creation, or: The First Session is Always Awkward**

**Chapter 2: Random Kidnappings and Taxi Chases**

xxxxx

Beta'd by gretchen4321 and percygranger

Britpicked by hms_wellington

xxxxx

Tom cursed under his breath as he knocked on the door of Laurie and David's flat. The door opened with a creak.

"Sorry I'm late, I was just–" Tom stopped mid-sentence.

"Just what? I only just got here myself." Arthur frowned at Tom. "Is something wrong, Tom?"

Arthur had come to role-playing night this week, not in his usual jumper and jeans, or even his pilot's uniform, but in a suit. A well-tailored suit. Arthur had opened the front door and Tom had stopped still in his tracks. Arthur looked damn good.

And now Tom was staring.

"What are you wearing? Is that a suit?"

"I thought wearing this would help me get more in character." Arthur's lips twitched into a faint smile as he turned back to the table and settled in his regular spot.

"You're not going to dye your hair black, too, are you?" Tom staggered to the kitchen to retrieve a cider before coming back to the table and sitting down heavily. "How did you afford a suit, anyway?"

"It was... a gift." Arthur was staring down at his lap, fidgeting with his sleeves. He didn't seem to be used to wearing a suit. He'd looked a bit more relaxed last week in his worn grey jumper.

"Right. Didn't know anyone liked you that much. So where are David and Laurie?"

"They disappeared upstairs just after I got here. But, ah, they seemed a bit distracted."

"Distracted?" Tom raised an eyebrow at Arthur's flustered expression. What, did he think they were off in some corner, snogging like teenagers?

"I've received stranger gifts, you know," Arthur blurted.

"Really?"

"My little brother baked me a cake, once."

"That doesn't sound all that strange."

"You've never eaten Sam's cooking." Arthur's eyes were wide and serious.

Tom started laughing. He couldn't help it. "I suppose I should be grateful for that."

"Probably," Arthur said, smiling, as he fiddled with his cufflinks.

"Should we go upstairs and see if they're ready to play, yet?" Tom suggested.

Arthur made a face, scrunching up his nose. "Best wait here. Wouldn't want to interrupt anything."

Tom laughed at Arthur's expression.

When David and Laurie finally did get down, five minutes later, Arthur seemed to be scanning them suspiciously for signs of tousling, and looked vaguely disappointed to find none.

Tom nudged Arthur with his elbow. "Stop staring."

Laurie smiled apologetically as she settled into the chair across from Tom. "Sorry about keeping you waiting. We were hashing out details of the session. So where were we? Who wants to sum up last session?"

Laurie's gaze settled on Tom, so he shrugged and said, "John Watson, BAMF ex-military doctor, met the handsome, charming, and brilliant Sherlock Holmes, and then it was all ruined by Greg and his so-called suicide case."

"So many details, Tom. I can really tell you were paying attention," David uttered dryly.

"BAMF?" asked Arthur, looking confused.

"Bad Ass Mofo," Tom said, grinning lopsidedly. Really, did Arthur have to have everything explained to him?

"Mofo?"

Apparently so. "It's not important."

Arthur gave Tom a sideways look before announcing primly, "I deduced that it was not, in fact, a suicide, and actually a murder. A serial killer who gets his victims to take the poison themselves."

Laurie smiled. "Right!"

David grabbed a handful of roasted almonds and added, his mouth half full, "I'm still at the crime scene. And Sherlock's looking for the missing case. Don't remember where John's going... sorry, Tom."

"Just back to John and Sherlock's flat," Tom supplied.

"All right, Tom – John is walking along the side of the road when a pay phone rings."

"Is it for me?" Tom asked.

"No one else is getting it."

"I'll pick it up, I guess."

Arthur grimaced. "You're not supposed to give in on the first try!"

Tom just shrugged.

Laurie smiled brightly. "Well, here we go..."

xxxxx

_John picked up the phone gingerly. "Hello?"_

_The voice on the other end was menacing. "Dr. Watson. You are being watched."_

_"What? Seriously?"_

_"Yes. Observe. The camera to your left." A CCTV camera pivoted towards him and then away._

_"Okay, thanks, that's creepy."_

_"Get in the car, Dr. Watson, if you please." A sleek black car pulled up._

_John looked around for an escape. He started walking down the street, but the car kept following him. "I'm not getting in that car!"_

_Suddenly, an attractive woman stepped out. She was holding a blackberry. "John, if you'd be so kind?"_

_John was suddenly much keener to get in the car. "And who would you be?" he asked, flashing a toothy grin._

_The woman paused a minute. "Huh, hadn't thought of a name yet... Uhm, how about Anthea."_

_"So, Anthea," John asked, as he slid into the backseat, "do you have a boyfriend?"_

_The woman smiled and turned back to her blackberry. "No."_

_"Are you free this evening?"_

_"Yep."_

_"Care to get a coffee?"_

_"No."_

_"Damn."_

_John's phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out to check the message._

_#Gregxoxo: _Stop chatting up my girlfriend.

_Anthea giggled._

_They pulled up to a deserted warehouse and a tall man in an impeccable suit stepped out, twirling an umbrella. "So. What do you know about Sherlock Holmes?"_

_"I know he's sexy!" John responded with a grin._

_Sherlock coughed nervously. "I'm not really... Wait, no, I guess I am... Huh."_

_The man with the umbrella sighed. "It's too bad Sherlock isn't here, in this warehouse, where he can hear that comment."_

_Sherlock turned bright red and sent John a text._

_#SH: _Why are you telling random villains in warehouses that I'm sexy?

_Umbrella Man ignored John's sniggering. "If you would be willing to provide information about Sherlock, I would be willing to compensate you for your troubles."_

_"You want me to spy on him? For money?"_

_#SH: _Don't do it, John.

_"Sherlock, you're not even here! You can't send me text messages about a conversation you can't hear and don't even know about!"_

_#SH: _But I don't trust him! Are you really going to spy on me for this creep?

_Umbrella Man calmly lifted a single eyebrow. "A message from Sherlock, I presume?"_

_"What's it to you?" John retorted._

_Umbrella Man smiled and pulled out his phone to send a private text to Sherlock._

_#SH:_ Oh, I get it. Carry on, then!  
_#John:_ What am I missing?  
_#SH:_ Not to worry! Just go ahead and talk to this mysterious chap.  
_#John: _I don't trust him.

_John frowned sternly at the strange man. "No way! I'm not going to spy on him!"_

_#SH: _Rats. We could have split the money.

_"Such loyalty," the man commented darkly, twirling his umbrella menacingly._

_John stifled a laugh. "A bit much, all this. Kidnapping me and asking me to spy on a man I've only known for a day. What, are you his nemesis or something?"_

_The man smiled ruefully. "I suppose Sherlock might say that, yes. He does so love to be dramatic."_

_#SH:_ I'm not that bad!  
_#John:_ Shut up, Sherlock, you're not even there. You're digging through a skip, covered in rubbish.  
_#SH:_ No, I'm not. I'm finished with that; now I'm back at the flat.  
_#John:_ Yeah, whatever.  
_#SH: _Come to the flat, John.

_"Ugh!" John cried in annoyance. "Excuse me while I send a message to the git you want me to spy on. On second thought, that offer of money is starting to sound appealing."_

_#John:_ No.  
_#SH:_ But I found the suitcase!  
_#John:_ No.  
_#SH:_ Oh, come on. It'll be fun!  
_#John:_ No.  
_#SH:_ Could be dangerous.  
_#John: _You're a prat, you know that?

_"Look, this was a lovely chat, but it seems I need to pop by the flat. Toodles."_

_When John finally got to the flat, Sherlock bounded up to him. "Hi! Want to help me catch a murderer?"_

_"Uh, okay?"_

_"Dial this number and send a text."_

_"Why can't you use your own phone?"_

_"This way he won't know it's from me. It's _genius_!"_

_"Right." John shrugged. "Okay, what's the message?"_

_"Oh. Rats. Hadn't thought that far. One moment!" Sherlock hastily scribbled out a message on a napkin and handed it to John._

_John stared in horror at the napkin. "What _is _this? 'OMG LOL I think I passed out and lost my phone. Wut happened at Lauriston Gardens? Like srsly. Can you meet me at 22 Northumberland Street? Kthx!' Are you kidding me? You really want me to send this text? Dear lord."_

_Sherlock just beamed at John, bobbing up and down in anticipation._

_#John:_ gjmjadmw

_"Have you sent it yet? Because I don't think you typed the whole thing..."_

_John fixed Sherlock with a cold stare._

_Sherlock averted his gaze. "Erm. Okay then. I guess now we just go wait for the murderer."_

_"Wait, what?"_

_"You just texted the murderer. Now we go to Northumberland Street and look for anyone suspicious!" Sherlock, practically giddy, raced to put on his coat and scarf. "Come on, John, don't dawdle!"_

_John sighed, long suffering, then limped after Sherlock as the detective bounced excitedly down the steps._

_"Oh, right, you limp. Don't worry, I'll go slowly," Sherlock added cheerfully._

_John glared at Sherlock. "Well, aren't you considerate?"_

_#Gregxoxo: _So... Is anyone going to let me in on what's going on? No one? Hello?

_John just grinned as he checked his phone. "Nope!"_

_Sherlock, on the other hand, looked contrite. "Oh, right, sorry. I'll send you a text as well."_

_#SH:_ Found suitcase.  
_#Gregxoxo: _That's helpful. I'll just wait for you creepily at your flat, then, shall I?

_John and Sherlock arrived at Northumberland Street, where there was a cosy Italian restaurant that Sherlock frequented._

_Angelo, an old friend of Sherlock's, came up to the table and hugged Sherlock. "This man, he is a GENIUS!"_

_John smiled. "Yeah, so I've heard."_

_Sherlock clapped his hands. "Ooh, pasta! That sounds good. Can we get some sort of stamina bonus from eating?"_

_Angelo frowned. "No... You can't get extra hit points from eating spaghetti..."_

_Sherlock frowned. "Oh, rats. Fine, I'll order pasta anyway. Wait, does it cost anything?"_

_Angelo looked thoughtful. "No, let's say you did me a favour. I'll let you have any entrée for free. And John can eat for free, too."_

_"Excellent! Pasta for both of us then!"_

_"I don't know, I think I'd rather have chicken," John countered, grinning._

_"So picky," Sherlock teased._

_"Uhm," Angelo interrupted, "not that this isn't fascinating and all, but aren't you looking for a murderer?"_

_"Right, we'll wait until we see something suspicious! And eat pasta in the meantime! And chicken," Sherlock added, nodding at John._

_"Pasta for Sherlock, and chicken for his date, coming up."_

_Sherlock groaned. "Date? Seriously? Not you, too!"_

_Angelo just smiled brightly. "I'll bring a candle for the table; it's more romantic."_

_John sighed as Angelo scuttled off to the back room. "Do you actually bring your dates here?" he asked Sherlock curiously. "Your girlfriend?"_

_Sherlock looked up, startled. "I don't have a girlfriend."_

_"Boyfriend?"_

_Sherlock flushed pink and averted his gaze – or maybe that was just Arthur. "Erm, no, no boyfriend, either."_

_"Right. So you're available, then?"_

_"What? John, what are you..." Sherlock looked horrified by this point. "Are you... chatting me up?"_

_"No, not exactly." John smiled blandly._

_"What _are_ you doing, then?"_

_#Gregxoxo: _Taking the piss, looks like.

xxxxx

"It's not funny!" Arthur snapped.

Tom was a bit taken aback at Arthur's outburst. "Okay! Sorry. Everyone else was doing it."

"That doesn't make it okay," Arthur replied sullenly.

Laurie coughed somewhat nervously. "All right, both of you - make a spot check."

Arthur still looked upset, but he rolled his twenty-sided die and flashed a thin smile on seeing the result. "27," he acknowledged, glancing over at Tom.

Tom winced when his own die tumbled to a stop. John didn't have a ten point bonus to spot like Sherlock, either. "Err, 8. That was a terrible roll."

Laurie smiled brightly. "Sherlock suddenly notices a taxi that is idling suspiciously outside the restaurant. It isn't picking up any passengers; it's just waiting."

Arthur grinned, the discomfort of a moment ago forgotten."That's it! The taxi cab!"

"John doesn't see anything."

"Do I have to explain everything, John? Look, that taxi cab, right there. Sherlock points out the window to the taxi, and says, 'That cab is... the murderer!'" Arthur paused for dramatic effect.

"The cab is the murderer?" Laurie asked, arching an eyebrow.

"It's not? Oh! No, wait, I meant the man inside the cab."

"Of course you did," Tom retorted, smirking.

Arthur rubbed his hands together in anticipation before turning back to Laurie. "I'd like to calculate a route where we can keep up with the cab on foot."

Laurie scrunched up her nose in puzzlement. "How are you going to manage that?"

"Well, if I know the streets well enough, I could predict where the taxi is going to go based on construction and traffic lights, and then figure out the best shortcuts on foot. Going over fire escapes, things like that." Arthur looked exceedingly proud of himself. Tom had to admit, that was pretty clever.

Laurie nodded. "All right, I could see that working. Roll either Navigate or Knowledge – London. You can too, if you want, Tom."

Tom rolled his eyes as Arthur rolled his die. "Not going to bother," Tom remarked dryly.

Arthur beamed. "23 for Knowledge."

Tom glanced over at Arthur. "How the hell do you keep rolling so high?"

Arthur's smile grew even wider. "I'm using my lucky D20!"

Tom looked suspiciously at the aforementioned twenty sided die. "By lucky, do you mean weighted? I don't think I've seen you roll less than a thirteen all evening."

"Of course it's not weighted! How could you say that?" Arthur cried, a look of horror on his face.

Tom smirked at Arthur's extreme reaction. "It was a joke, Arthur. Don't get your knickers in a twist."

Arthur frowned. "Oh." He paused. "After him! Sherlock races out of the restaurant."

"Okay," Tom acquiesced, "John will follow close behind."

"Both of you - roll athletics to see if you can actually keep up with the cab."

Tom and Arthur rolled again, and satisfied with the results, Laurie nodded. "Good, and what do you do when you catch up to the cab?"

"I'll open the door and talk to the passenger."

"He stares back at you and asks, 'Hoo ahrr yew?'" Laurie said. Or at least, tried to say.

Arthur and Tom both stared at Laurie, horrified.

David, who had been lazily flipping through the player's handbook, turned to Laurie, squinting. "What the hell was that?"

"I was – it was supposed to be an American accent, all right?" Laurie flushed and waved her hands about, flustered, now reverting to her normal, rather-posh sounding accent.

"Well, it was rubbish," David said. "Stick to cockney. You can do cockney."

"Oh, he's American?"

"Yep, I just arrived this morning." Laurie cleared her throat.

Tom frowned. "Wait, how do we know that?"

"Here's my plane ticket. Just arrived at Heathrow four hours ago."

"So, wait, what does that mean?" Arthur asked. "He has an alibi?"

David smiled smugly at Arthur. "Wrong country; makes it a bit difficult to go on a murderous rampage."

"Then he can't be the killer, can he?" Arthur pursed his lips and knit his eyebrows together in a grimace. "Can you?" he asked Laurie.

The side of Laurie's mouth quirked upwards in bemusement. "He might be lying. But the plane ticket looks real."

Arthur frowned even further. "Drat!"

Laurie cleared her throat. "Well, the passenger is staring at Sherlock, somewhat horrified. 'Who are you?' he repeats."

"Oh, erm. Police. I guess. I tell him to enjoy his stay, and shut the door."

Tom snorted. Arthur just sighed. "I suppose we should go back to the flat, then," Arthur said.

"When John and Sherlock get back to the flat, they find me upstairs, drinking beer and watching telly," David said. "Took your sweet time, didn't you? I was wondering when you louts would get here. Can you actually tell me where you're going, next time?"

Tom grinned. "Nope!"

David sighed. "Look, that was a great chase and all, which, if my character had _been_there," he added pointedly, "I'm sure he would have quite enjoyed. However, not to be horribly nit-picky or anything, but, how the hell would someone with a limp keep up with someone running at top speed? Did Sherlock wait for him, or something?"

Laurie frowned. "But you wouldn't have been able to keep up with the taxi cab, then."

"Bollocks!" Tom swore.

Arthur, on the other hand, looked thoughtful. "Maybe the limp was psychosomatic."

"Psycho what?" Tom asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Psychosomatic. That would explain why he was able to keep up with Sherlock – the pain is triggered by a psychological issue, not a physical one."

Tom grabbed at Arthur's bottle as it tried to make a swan dive off the table, assisted by Arthur's elbow. "So you're saying it's like the PTSD? It's all in my head?"

Arthur frowned. "Do you actually know anything about PTSD?"

Tom scooted the ginger beer towards the centre of the table even as he struggled to hide his embarrassment. "Uh, no, not really."

Arthur giggled. "Right."

"So, uh," Tom said, "I have a limp, sometimes, but when I'm distracted, my leg works like normal? And it's not just some bollocks magical explanation?"

"Nope! No magic! My uncle had a psychosomatic injury. In his hand."

"Brilliant," Tom replied, smiling.

Arthur looked shocked. "What, really? You really think so?"

"Yeah, that was great! I could never have come up with that."

"No one's ever called me brilliant before..." Arthur murmured.

"And no one will again – _ow_!" David made a face as Laurie glared daggers at him. Tom could only assume she'd kicked him under the table.

Laurie swiftly interrupted Arthur's frown. "That was great, Arthur! I think you're getting the hang of this smart thing." She beamed at him, and shot a reproachful look at David.

"Oh." Arthur ducked his head and smiled at Laurie. "Thanks."

Laurie giggled nervously. "Uhm, well, it's getting late... and, I know you didn't actually get to play at all, dear, but..."

David sighed, resigned. "It's all right. It's Tom's fault, anyway."

Tom glared. "How is it my fault?" he protested.

David just chuckled. "You're so easy to get a rise out of, mate."

Arthur and Laurie shared a conspiratorial giggle, and Tom felt rather sheepish.

"Well, see you all next week, then! For the exciting conclusion!" Laurie was beaming now.

"Next week, yeah."

Tom and Arthur filed out of the door and Tom hesitated on the way to his car. "Do you want a lift?"

Arthur looked astonished. "Oh! I, erm. Thank you. I... I can take the tube, it's no bother." He smiled, but he was looking somewhere past Tom's left shoulder.

Tom licked his lips. "Right then."

Arthur walked away... in the opposite direction of the nearest tube station. Tom wondered how long it would take Arthur to realise his mistake. He was still grinning when he pulled up to his flat.


	4. ASiCC: 3 Keep Your Clothes On

**Better than Reality**

_"The human mind has a greater need of the ideal even than of the real. It is by the real that we exist; it is by the ideal that we live."_  
Victor Hugo, "William Shakespeare" (1864)

xxxxx

**A Study in Character Creation, or: The First Session is Always Awkward**

**Chapter 3: Keep Your Clothes On**

xxxxx

Beta'd by gretchen4321 and percygranger

Britpicked by hms_wellington

xxxxx

Tom's phone buzzed while he was still at the office on Friday afternoon. It had been an excruciatingly slow day and Tom was just waiting for the chance to go home and get ready for role playing. Tom glanced across at his co-worker's desk – Milton was still busy sorting paperclips – and pulled his mobile out of his pocket.

#Arthur Bradstreet: _Kenneth stole my oyster card. :( Going to be late to tonight's session. -A_

Damn. He really didn't want to be stuck with David and Laurie as they whispered conspiratorially to each other over the kitchen counter. Last Christmas had been bad enough. He'd been the second person to arrive at their party – just after Laurie's sister, who had proceeded to flirt with Tom awkwardly before making a beeline for the tequila.

Tom quickly shot off a text while Milton noisily rooted through his desk drawers.

#Thomas Jones: _need a lift? -tom_

The response came less than a minute later.

#Arthur Bradstreet: _That would be lovely, thanks, if you don't mind. It's not too much bother, is it?_  
#Thomas Jones: _nope, txt me your address and i'll be by at 5:45_  
#Arthur Bradstreet: _221B Baker St. Thanks so much!_

Huh.

#Thomas Jones: _you used your own address in the game?_  
#Arthur Bradstreet: _Oh, yes, suppose I did. I'm not very imaginative._

When Tom looked up, Milton was staring at him blankly. "Have you seen my stapler?"

"No, can't say that I have. Sorry, Milton." He flushed and slid his phone back in his pocket. Another twenty three minutes, and he would be on his way home to change, and then off to Baker Street to pick up Arthur.

xxxxx

When Tom got to Baker Street (dead on quarter to six, as promised), there was no sign of Arthur. He cracked open the door and padded into the hallway. "Hello?"

Nothing.

He made his way up the staircase. The upstairs door was unlocked when Tom tried it, to his surprise. He stepped inside and glanced around curiously at Arthur's flat.

The first thing Tom noticed was the large number of model aeroplanes.

The flat was littered with them – strung up from the ceiling on bits of thread; propped up on the mantelpiece; a plane-in-progress on the kitchen table; and some half-painted ones on the table in the sitting room.

There were over two dozen planes in varying states of progress. Apparently Arthur wasn't kidding when he said he liked aeroplanes. Tom had thought it was a joke, at first – a pilot who was obsessed with aeroplanes? Tom couldn't fathom enjoying his job that much.

The second thing Tom noticed was Arthur's muffled voice, coming from behind a closed door just off the kitchen.

"No, Mum. Stop right there."

Overcome with curiosity, Tom crept closer to the door.

"You're not setting me up on another blind date! I'm not going to like her, no matter how lovely she is, and it's not fair-"

Tom tried to picture his own mum setting him up on a date. Maybe one of her co-workers from the telephone company. Tom stifled a snort. They would probably kill for a date with anyone who was gainfully employed and under the age of forty-five.

"I just _know_, Mum. Please. Don't-"

Arthur's voice was tinged with quiet desperation at this point. It sounded like he'd had this argument before.

"That's not the issue!" Arthur shouted, and a loud thump sounded through the thin wall. Arthur must have punched some unsuspecting piece of furniture. "Look, I'm sorry, Mum, it's just that I've got to go. We're role playing tonight, remember?"

Maybe Tom should wait downstairs. Still, Arthur had left the door unlocked. Surely he'd meant for Tom to come inside?

"Laurie's going out with David, mum."

The exasperated tone made Tom bite off a giggle. He could picture Arthur standing inside his room, mobile phone tucked between shoulder and cheek as he buttoned his shirt, rolling his eyes at his mother's attempts at matchmaking.

Seemingly out of nowhere, Arthur added, "Tom's single, I think."

Even with Arthur's light tone, Tom suddenly felt exceedingly uncomfortable about his current location, lurking outside what was most likely Arthur's bedroom. As quietly as he could, he padded back out to the first hallway, attempting to ignore Arthur's continuing murmurs.

He waited until a few minutes of silence had gone by before knocking loudly on the door leading into Arthur's flat. "Hello?"

There came the sound of a door unlatching hurriedly and Arthur's hasty shout of "One moment!"

The door flew inward, revealing Arthur, dressed in the same smart suit as last week, ears tinged pink and panting slightly, currently grinning broadly at Tom."You're just on time! Hang on, let me grab my dice and I'll be ready to go."

xxxxx

Arthur turned awkwardly to Tom as he buckled his seat belt. "Erm. Thanks for the lift."

"Yeah, no prob. It's on the way, anyway." Actually, it wasn't. It was sort of out of the way. But it seemed like a nice thing to say.

Arthur's sunny smile made it worth the lie.

"So, what... do you do, when, ah, you're not role playing?"

"I'm a journalist."

"Oh?"

"Yeah."

"That sounds exciting."

Tom snorted. "Yeah, well, that's what I'd thought too. Back when I was getting my degree, at any rate."

Tom spared a momentary sideways glance before settling his gaze back on the road ahead. Arthur was biting his lip, the corner of his mouth twitched up into a shy smile. Tom could have sworn Arthur had been looking at him, but he quickly shifted his gaze to his lap, his right leg bouncing up and down, and his hands fidgeting restlessly.

Arthur cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had fallen. "So... not all that you had hoped for, then?"

Tom had wanted to be a writer for as long as he can remember. When he entered university, he decided to study journalism in addition to creative writing. He'd imagined running off to the Middle East to interview refugees and political dissidents, or reporting on murders and trials of serial killers. Perhaps being a travel writer and flying off to exotic destinations, then writing up reviews of posh hotels and five star bistros.

Instead, he was being paid next to nothing to report on the latest contraflow on the M25, the opening of a new Chinese restaurant off the Camden Road, and the dwindling popularity of the articulated bus.

Last week he had spent an hour wading through the sewer because he was reporting on pollution, and Stacey had wanted a photo of "something authentic" to go with the article. Tom's boss, of course, was still trying to get in Stacey's pants, and so whenever she tried to get Tom to do something humiliating for a photo shoot he agreed.

He'd spent forty minutes in the shower trying to scrub the stench away, and he wasn't entirely sure he'd succeeded. Milton had given him dirty looks all day. Then again, Milton usually gave him dirty looks.

"It's just... work. I suppose. I always pictured doing something more exciting. When I was an undergraduate, I wanted to be a science fiction author."

"Wow, really? That's brilliant!"

"Uh. Thanks?" Tom could feel heat creeping up his neck. He wasn't really used to this sort of enthusiasm.

"Have you written anything lately? I'd love to read some of it."

Tom's eyes widened a bit. "I don't tend to show my stuff to other people." He hadn't completed any short stories since uni, and those had all been terrible. Didn't stop him from keeping them in a box under his bed, but...

"Right! Of course. Erm, sorry. I didn't..." To Tom's relief, Arthur fell silent as they pulled up at a red light.

There was an awkward silence, which Arthur seemed compelled to break three minutes later. "Looking forward to tonight's game, then?"

"Yeah."

One. Two. Three.

Tom only got up to seventeen before Arthur spoke again.

"You like playing John, then?"

"Yeah, he's fun. So far. Not doing as much as your character, though. Sherlock seems like a talker, right?"

Tom didn't hear anything but thought he saw Arthur nodding out of his peripheral vision.

He cleared his throat before continuing. "I guess John's more of a fighter. He specialises in firearms."

"With any luck, you'll be able to use your gun tonight!" Arthur said. "Oh. That wasn't a... euphemism or anything."

"What are you talking about?"

"Just, erm. Thought I should clarify. Right. I'll be quiet now."

Tom glanced over at the man beside him, who was currently staring pointedly out the passenger window. "Okay then."

xxxxx

When Tom and Arthur strolled in together, Laurie gave them an amused look.

"David!" she bellowed, and Tom wondered how so much volume could come out of such a petite form. "Boys are here!"

David thundered down the stairs and grabbed Laurie from behind, head peeking out over her shoulder. "Why didn't you say so?"

Laurie just giggled and wrestled David into his chair at the table, which he somehow managed to make look graceful instead of a result of being shoved.

Tom popped into the kitchen to grab a lager, and when he came back to the doorway, he saw Arthur smiling enthusiastically as he settled into his seat.

"So. Do you remember where we ended last time?" Laurie asked, as she scooted her chair in.

Claiming his regular spot, Tom reached for a handful of crisps from the bag in the centre of the table. "We just finished chasing a cab, with nothing to show for it. Except that my limp is psychosomatic." He flashed a grin at Arthur, who bit his lip and smiled shyly back.

Laurie beamed and took a sip of ginger beer. "All right then. The three of you are all together now, back at Sherlock and John's flat... What do you do?"

xxxxx

_Greg Lestrade grinned and took another swig of his lager. "So, let me get this straight. You," he said, waving his beer in Sherlock's general direction, "found the dead woman's suitcase in some random skip. How'd you end up calling the murderer?"_

_Sherlock smiled as he paced about the living room carpet._

_"I found her mobile number on the case, but no mobile, and it wasn't on the body, either. So, unless she lost it, her mobile must have been with the murderer."_

_John stole a few more crisps before turning back to the telly._

_"John," Sherlock prompted, "what do you think we should do now?"_

_John startled and nearly spilt his beer on the floor. "Huh, what? Uh. I wasn't... Sorry. I wasn't paying attention. Can you repeat the question?"_

_Sherlock just grinned at John, but Greg glared and snapped, "Get with the game, you idiot! The rest of us are actually trying to play, here!"_

_John looked surprised, and truth be told, offended, but Sherlock stepped in before either could get a word off. "Look, just... Why don't we see if we can track the phone via GPS? You can do that, right, Greg? I imagine that New Scotland Yard can track anyone with a mobile."_

_Greg grinned. "Be careful, someone might try to steal your tinfoil hat."_

_"I'm serious! Come on, Greg, surely you can track the location?"_

_"All right, all right. I'll go to NSY and find the GPS location of the phone. Are you two coming with me?"_

_Sherlock shook his head. "No... There's something that doesn't add up. I want to take another look at the woman's suitcase."_

_"You could bring it with you to the yard."_

_"Yes, but all my experimental equipment is in the flat."_

_John rolled his eyes. "Look, it's okay, you stay here looking for clues, and I'll go with Greg, yeah?"_

_Sherlock practically beamed. "An excellent compromise! Fine, then, I'll get started looking for... clues."_

_When Greg and John got down the stairs of Baker Street, they found a cab waiting. "Well, that's pretty bloody convenient," Greg groused._

_"Taxi for Sherlock 'olmes."_

_Greg grinned. "Nice. Cockney. Told you that you could do Cockney."_

_The cabbie, a homely man in a shabby grey jumper, glared pointedly at Greg._

_John frowned. "Sherlock doesn't need a taxi; he decided to stay here. Can you take us to New Scotland Yard?"_

_The cabbie pursed his lips for a moment, considering. "All right, 'op in."_

_John, in an extraordinary turn of luck ("Rolled a nineteen on my spot check, yessss") got a bad feeling when they were ten minutes into the drive._

_"Greg, this isn't the way to the station, is it?"_

_Greg glanced up from his mobile and out the windows of the taxi cab. "No. It's not."_

_"Where are we?"_

_Greg narrowed his eyes. He wasn't as familiar with London as Sherlock was, but he still knew the streets outside of NSY, and he could recognise some of the seedier parts of town._

_John thought maybe he should give the cabbie the benefit of the doubt. "Let us off here, would you?"_

_"Sorry, guv. 'Fraid you're not goin' to the yard. Now just sit tight. I'm sure Mr. 'olmes will see you soon." The cabbie flashed a menacing sneer in the rear view mirror._

_Back in the flat at Baker Street, Sherlock's phone vibrated with a text message alert from a blocked number._

_#Evil1:_ I have two things you might want back. Want to trade?  
_#SH:_ Where have you taken them?  
_#Evil1:_It wouldn't be a game if I told you.

xxxxx

_Sherlock paced agitatedly about the flat. He had to find John and Greg, but how? He'd been depending on them to find the phone. Maybe there was something in the suitcase, but he'd already looked three times and hadn't found anything more useful._

_Mrs. Hudson suddenly poked her head in the flat. "How's it going, dearie?"_

_"Terribly! John's been kidnapped!"_

_Mrs. Hudson looked slightly surprised at Sherlock's outburst. "And you have no way of finding him?"_

_"No! It's maddening!"_

_"Are you sure?"_

_Sherlock stopped in his pacing and eyed Mrs. Hudson suspiciously. "No, you're right. There's something I'm missing. Something obvious. We know the phone is with the killer, and that it's traceable via GPS. But Greg was going to the Yard to trace it!" He threw up his hands in frustration as Mrs. Hudson started filling the kettle._

_"Was't there something about a note, dearie?" she asked blandly as she flicked the kettle on._

_"Of course – the note! Maybe RACHE means something. But what?"_

_#John:_ Maybe RACHE is a password?  
_#SH:_ Do you know where you are?  
_#Gregxoxo:_ No. I can't narrow it down to anything further than somewhere southeast of the yard.  
_#SH:_ Fine, that's better than nothing. Tell me as soon as you know more.  
_#SH:_ And don't let the cabbie see you texting.

_Sherlock tossed his phone irritably on the sofa and resumed his pacing. RACHE, a password… but why? Rache meant revenge in German, he knew, but why the hell would anyone pick that as a password? And what would it be a password for?_

_Sherlock suddenly lunged for his laptop with a shout. "The mobile! It's a password for her mobile!"_

_He found the mobile phone website and typed in the woman's email address as the user name (both of which were conveniently listed on the luggage tag, now that he'd noticed). He tried _rache_ as the password, then _Rache_, and even _RACHE_, but nothing was working._

_#John:_ Maybe rache is only part of it. What about Rachel?

_Sherlock tried _RACHEL_ with bated breath, and cheered loudly when he was allowed onto the site. Lo and behold, there was the GPS locate function._

_#SH:_ Brilliant, John!

_As soon as the GPS coordinates flashed on the screen, Sherlock tumbled down the stairs and into the nearest cab._

_#SH:_ On my way.

_It took ten minutes to arrive at the Roland Kerr Further Education College, and after throwing a handful of cash at the cabbie and dashing out toward the building entrance, Sherlock was startled to find a dumpy man in a hideous jumper waiting for him._

_"Mr. 'olmes. Pleasure. Would you like to play a game?"_

_"Where are they?" Sherlock cried, furious._

_The grubby man just sneered malevolently. "There's only one way I'll tell ya. And that's if you can win my little… game."_

_Sherlock scowled, but he could tell the man wasn't bluffing._

_"And if I agree?"_

_"I've locked your friends in a room somewhere in this building. If you win my game – if you choose correctly – the door key is in my pocket. Afterwards, you can retrieve it. I won't stop ya." His grin widened eerily. "If you win, I won't be able to."_

_"Fine. Lead the way."_

xxxxx

_When John sent his last text message to Sherlock, the cabbie unfortunately caught a glimpse of John's mobile in the rear view mirror. "We'll be 'avin' none of this, then," he said gruffly. He stopped at a light and slammed back the dividing screen. Pointing his gun at John, he commanded, "Give it 'ere, then. You too," he added, waving the gun vaguely in Greg's direction. "And your gun," the cabbie added, almost as an afterthought._

_John contemplated pulling his own gun on the cabbie, but if the man didn't know about it, John wasn't going to risk him finding out. He passed the man his mobile, and Greg handed him both his phone and his firearm._

_The cabbie cackled malevolently as he inspected Greg's gun. "Yes, this'll do nicely."_

_John rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Are we getting out here or what?"_

_The cabbie eyed the building in front of him. "This works. Get out. An' don't try any funny business."_

_He led them at gunpoint up to the second floor of the building. He found an empty classroom and shoved them both inside. "Now you just wait here, like good pets, while I go 'ave a chat with Mr. 'olmes." He slammed the door shut and locked it behind him._

_John waited until the sounds of his footsteps down the hall had faded. "Great. We're locked in a classroom. How's your lock picking?"_

_Greg shook his head. "Sorry, mate, don't have that sort of skill. Too bad Sherlock's not here."_

_John grinned. "He's probably busy dealing with a deranged serial killer cabbie by now. Can't say I envy him."_

_Greg shrugged as John peered about the room. There was a blackboard, a front desk, and a number of individual chairs with swivel desks. There was a window on the far wall from the door, overlooking a pleasant-looking courtyard. The drop to the ground from the window looked too far to make unassisted. A locked AV cabinet near the front probably housed an overhead projector and some video cables, but John didn't imagine he or Greg could lock pick that any better than the door._

_John strode over to the window and attempted to tug it open. "Locked."_

_"We can always break it with one of these chairs, if we need to."_

_"Okay, yeah, but how do we get down to the ground? I don't fancy jumping. I like walking, thanks. Bit hard with broken legs."_

_Greg contemplated. "Well, there are all these desks. We can use that as an anchor. And I'm wearing a belt. You?"_

_"Two belts isn't going to be enough to get down a whole storey! That's, what, four metres?"_

_"Yeah, but there's also shirts. And... trousers."_

_John groaned. "Oh, yeah, this is going to be really dignified. Fine. I'll start tying knots. You go down first. I want to make sure at least one of us can still walk if this goes bad."_

_Twenty minutes later, John and Greg were standing in the first floor courtyard, shivering in their pants and shoes. Greg managed to untie his trousers free of the long makeshift rope leading out of the window above them._

_"This is complete bollocks. Why do you get your trousers back?"_

_"Because I was smart enough to put them on the bottom of the clothing chain."_

_"Fine, fine. I'm keeping my gun though."_

_"Isn't that an illegal firearm?"_

_"Shut up, Greg."_

_"All right, split up and search for Sherlock then?" He glanced enviously at John's gun. "I feel like you have a distinct advantage here."_

_"At least you get trousers," John smirked. "I'll take the first floor, yeah? Hope Sherlock was smart enough to phone the Yard before he got here."_

_Greg grinned in response and sprinted for the stairs._

xxxxx

_Meanwhile, the cabbie led Sherlock to the back of the building into a small classroom looking out onto the courtyard. Their steps rang eerily against the polished floor and the fluorescent lights cast strange shadows._

_"We're here. So what's this game?"_

_"Hahaha–" The cabbie chuckled in what might have been a menacing tone if his voice hadn't cracked in the middle. He coughed. "This is a battle of wits, Mr. 'olmes. There are two bottles. One with the good pill, one with the bad. The bad one, that's the one what kills ya. You take one, and I take the other." He set down two glass vials in front of him, carefully unscrewed the caps, and retrieved a single pill from each bottle. He placed one pill in front of himself, and one in front of Sherlock. "Now, the question is, would I put the good pill in front of me? Or in front of you?"_

_Sherlock groaned. "Seriously? You just stole this entire scene from the Princess Bride. Why not throw a sword-fighting Spaniard at me while you're at it?"_

_The cabbie frowned petulantly. "I thought you woulda known by now. Never go up against a cabbie when death is on the line!"_

_Sherlock giggled despite himself. "Well, that explains why you're so confident about getting out of this alive; the game's rigged. Both pills are poisoned."_

_"Nuh-uh!" the cabbie protested, pouting furiously. "Not rigged. There really is a good pill." He pulled a gun out of his pocket and pointed it at Sherlock. "An' if you don't choose, I choose for ya. I don't think you'd like that much."_

_Sherlock frowned. The police were on their way; he'd texted them as soon as he'd locked onto the GPS location. All he needed to do was stall._

_"I see that you have appalling taste in clothing. That jumper is frankly hideous."_

_"Oi! I happen to like this jumper! And anyway, what's this got to do with finding the poisoned pill?"_

_Sherlock shrugged. "I'm just trying to get to know you better. It's only fair, isn't it? If I'm to pick one of these pills, I should understand my opponent." He cleared his throat. "As I was saying about your terrible fashion sense... Clearly you're still living with your mother, playing video games all day, eating quavers, and generally wasting your life away. After all, you can't afford a flat in London on a cabbie's wages. I s'pose you got into serial killing as a way to pass the time?"_

_The cabbie looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. "I'll have you know, my mother makes excellent chicken casserole! That's the only reason I put up with 'er. Besides, it's economical." He nodded severely. "Also, I didn't go into serial killing on a whim. I've got a sponsor. He gives me loads of money for each person I off. Besides, it's fun."_

_"A sponsor?"_

_"Yeah, he's a big fan o' yours. Thinks you're sexy."_

_Sherlock flushed pink and giggled. "Yes, I suppose I am. Don't suppose you could give me his number?"_

_The cabbie snorted. "Sorry, guv. You'll 'ave to work that one out on your own." His eyebrows furrowed and he glared at Sherlock. "Enough stalling! You'd best pick a pill, or you'll be getting a bullet in your 'ead."_

_Sherlock gazed at the two pills suspiciously. It had to be a trap. He'd just have to put his faith in luck..._

xxxxx

Arthur stared at the die blankly. Unfortunately, no matter how much he stared, the number one displaying did not morph into a higher number.

Laurie grimaced. "Critical miss, huh? You grab the pill in front of the cabbie, and you know with absolute certainty that you've made the right choice."

Arthur just groaned and slumped back in his chair.

Laurie smiled eerily, converting back into the ridiculously camp villain. "Made your choice, 'ave you? Well then, down the 'atch."

"Bloody fantastic. How close are we?" Tom asked, worried.

"Greg, you're still searching, and haven't found anything useful. John, you open the door to the nearest classroom... To find it empty. You can, however, see Sherlock through the window, in a room across the courtyard, talking to the cabbie. Sherlock's holding a bottle up to the light, inspecting it closely."

"Damn it! I knew I should have put points in navigate! Whatever. I'm just going to try to shoot the cabbie through the window. I'll roll to hit."

Everyone waited with bated breath as the die rolled to a stop on the table.

"_Yes_!" Tom yelled, jumping out of his chair in excitement and pumping his fists. "_Twenty_! In your face, cabbie!"

"You shot him in the face?" asked Arthur, disgruntled.

"No, I – it's an expression. Never mind."

Laurie giggled at Arthur's confused expression. "All right, Tom, roll again to see if the damage is critical."

"I got a twelve total," he responded, vaguely disappointed.

"Well, it was a pretty difficult shot, so no, you don't get the crit damage. Good thing you rolled a twenty, eh?"

Arthur gulped nervously. "I'll say!"

Laurie's eyes crinkled merrily. "Roll for damage," she directed.

"Okay, 1d12 + 2 damage. I rolled a nine, plus two is eleven."

Arthur looked vaguely confused. "I still don't understand how combat works in this game," he complained.

"It's a good thing you're not the one with the gun, then," Tom quipped.

"The bullet rips through the cabbie's shoulder; he cries out in pain and collapses on the floor."

Arthur let out a small gasp. "I dodge back when I see the cabbie fall over, and then I go over to him and ask who sent him. 'Who's your employer? Tell me!'"

Laurie sneered malevolently and coughed dramatically. She seemed to be somewhat overenthusiastic about this whole villain thing. "Never!"

Arthur frowned. "Fine. I'll play dirty. I lean forward and… poke the cabbie's wound."

Laurie cut through Tom's sniggers. "Ow! All right! I'll tell you! It was…" She took a theatrical pause. "Moriarty!"

Arthur laughed. "You're so melodramatic, Laurie."

"Oi! I happen to enjoy being villainous, what's wrong with that?" Laurie mock-pouted and Arthur started laughing even harder.

Tom looked over at Arthur, giggling. There was something fascinating about seeing Arthur relaxed and happy. He was so often reserved, nervous, and uptight… A strange tension was building in his gut. Tom's breath suddenly caught in his throat, and he forced himself to tear his gaze away.

Laurie was staring at him, a strange smile on her face. "What?" he snapped, unthinking.

Laurie shrank back a bit. "Nothing." She took a breath and unclenched her shoulders before turning and looking deliberately at Arthur. "You hear sirens approaching. It sounds like your reinforcements have arrived."

"Excellent. I'll go outside and tell them what happened."

"Tom? David?"

David continued absently playing with Laurie's ponytail as he spoke. "I'll go out and let them know I'm all right. And corroborate Sherlock's story as far as I can."

Tom, feeling a bit off-balance, shifted in his seat as he tried to parse the question. "John's still just dressed in his pants, yeah? I think I'm going to see if I can find some trousers before I go find Sherlock."

Arthur glanced over at Tom tentatively. "Do I… can I tell? That it was Tom?"

Tom looked over at Arthur, confused. "What?"

Arthur redirected his gaze to Laurie. "Does Sherlock know that John saved his life?"

Laurie smiled lopsidedly. "You tell me."

Arthur bit his lip thoughtfully. "Fine. It was a crack shot – the angle was nearly impossible, but the shooter got the cabbie squarely in the shoulder and didn't even come close to me. He waited until the last minute – so either he didn't want to fire until he knew I was in immediate danger, or, more likely, he didn't have the opportunity to fire earlier. And I know that John was trapped with Greg until a few minutes before the shooting. Furthermore, he was known to be in the area, he has the right background, and he…" Arthur broke off suddenly, the tips of his ears turning pink.

"I what?" Tom demanded.

"Nothing. It's a bloody role playing game, of course it was you." He was fidgeting nervously, looking down at his hands in his lap.

Tom blinked back his confusion. "Yeah, okay. John will walk up to Sherlock once he's properly dressed."

Arthur looked up at Tom suddenly, smiling nervously. "Good shot."

Tom smiled crookedly. "Don't say that so loud. There are coppers here, you know."

Arthur's lips twisted up and his eyes softened. "Right. Wouldn't want to blow your cover."

David coughed. "Greg is glad to see John's all right. He'll say hi."

Tom suddenly felt quite self-conscious and turned back to Laurie. "Right. So, is that it? That's the conclusion?"

Laurie smiled. "Yep, that's it for now. David was going to take over the next story arc so I got a chance to play."

"I'm not going to be ready next week," David said, "so was thinking maybe we could watch a film or something. Order a Chinese."

"That sounds like fun," Laurie agreed enthusiastically. "We can pick the film next week."

Tom was relieved to finally be going home. It had been a long night. It didn't dawn on him until he'd stepped out onto the front porch that he still needed to drive Arthur home. Bloody hell.

Arthur, for his part, strolled out to the car and waited patiently at the side door. He smiled stiffly at Tom. "That was fun."

"Yeah. I..." _don't know what I want to say._ "I had fun, too."

"Thanks, again, for the lift."

Tom licked his lips absently. "Yeah. It was... nice. Maybe we could... carpool next week, too?"

Arthur smiled and ducked his head as he climbed into the passenger seat. "I'd love to."

The ride to Arthur's flat was spent in mostly comfortable silence. Tom returned to his own house, mind spinning, and he barely noticed his mum's polite inquiry about his evening.

It took him longer than usual to fall asleep that night, and when he finally did, he dreamt of flying bullets, murderous cabbies, and running over rooftops.


End file.
